


Fifty First Dates

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Breakfast and Handjobs, Crack Treated Seriously, Failed Murder Boyfriends, I'm Sorry, Ice Fishing, In Universe HR, Juice is a viable substitute for viagra, M/M, No reception, Prequel, Slow News Day, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22212382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: “I don’t date. And for your own safety, maybe you shouldn’t either.”The one where John and Marcus try to date. Turns out trying to find time to go out for pizza without bringing a gun is way harder than it sounds.Also the High Table can fuck right off, thank you.
Relationships: Marcus/John Wick
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	Fifty First Dates

“Are we dating?” John asked, his thumb rubbing thoughtful circles over Marcus’s left hipbone, the way he liked. 

“Uh.” Marcus was naked, but then with that question, he suddenly lost yet another layer of himself that he hadn’t known was there for him to lose. “Come again?” 

John inspected himself for a long moment. Then he pinched Marcus on his hip again. “Maybe in an hour. I know you heard what I said.” 

Marcus sighed. Once John got his hands on or set his mind to something, he was like a dog with a bone. In a positive light, it was great that John was committed and focused; in a negative light, this meant that John sometimes got hold of something stupid, and was harebrained about letting it go. He gave the only answer he could: “I don’t date, John. And for your own safety, maybe you shouldn’t either.” 

John’s hand left Marcus’s hip, and he was suddenly left wondering whether he’d been too harsh with the kid. Marcus itched to touch John again, but something told him not to. John said, “Then what are we doing?” 

In retrospect, Marcus could look around his bedroom - mostly a mess of garments that made up three-piece black tie for two (cufflinks included) - and see how John could get the impression that they were dating. His body had sung with the excitement of it all, and John, as per usual, was reliable as a fellow live wire. 

“Celebrating a job well done? Becoming rich motherfuckers?”

John still didn’t let go. He was staring now, at Marcus’s ceiling, rather than Marcus, but Marcus still felt the younger man’s eyes boring into him like he was a target marked for immediate disposal. “But we always do a good job. And we _are_ rich.” 

Suddenly, Marcus wasn’t so keen to be lying in bed and not doing anything. He was suddenly aware of a slight ache that was rolling in at the base of his skull. The taste of stale alcohol was on his tongue, and maybe he needed to brush his teeth. He got up and reached for a dressing gown that smelled like it needed a wash, but for the moment, it’d do. 

Marcus said, “What are you not telling me?” 

John shrugged: young, pretty, petulant. All the things that Marcus’s dick liked a lot. “It was just a question.” 

“Want some breakfast?” Well, so long as it was _just a question_. Maybe that would be the end of it. But as John nodded, thereby releasing Marcus from his unsteady post by the edge of the bed, he didn’t think so. 

To Marcus, breakfast was the standout meal of the day. Most people preferred dinner, but the thought of going to sleep with a full stomach made him feel fat and useless. Not that he had lazy nights or anything. 

As Marcus was scraping eggs onto two plates along with nicely caramelized herb sausages and slightly charred tomatoes, he heard John moving about behind him. 

“That’s for you,” said Marcus, gesturing at one of the two glasses set by his juicer, which was in its usual pride of place next to his collection of knives, always kept sharp. Marcus wasn’t really a knives sort of guy, but he had great aim and knives would do in a pinch. “It’s apple.”

“I’m not drinking that,” John returned. “And that’s not just apple. Just look at it. It’s unnatural.” 

“Well, it’s kept me right,” said Marcus, who didn’t need to look at the contents of John’s glass. “You’ll think me in twenty years." When John still didn't look convinced, Marcus sighed, shoving a plate in front of him, "Fine, then just eat.” 

John snorted, “Don’t they have pills for that?” 

Marcus bit back a _fuck you_ , if only because he knew that was just opening the door to a dozen things. 

“Besides, I might not be here in twenty years,” John said, chewing. He’d made himself comfortable on one of the stools at Marcus’s breakfast bar. He looked like he’d run his head under a faucet, with damp strands of dark hair still curling around his jaw and, well. Marcus couldn’t help himself. 

“I told myself that twenty years ago.” Marcus crossed over to where John sat and waited until he swallowed before bringing John close. As usual, John went. He tasted of tomato, slightly sweet. “Still here, aren’t I?” 

John’s hand went and found Marcus inside his dressing gown. Right on cue, Marcus felt himself arch forward into the touch and he bit back a sound. A slow smirk spread over John’s lips. “Yeah, just about.” 

“So?” Winston said, he looked mildly curious. “Are you dating?” 

“Probably...not?” Marcus tried. He wasn’t sure why he’d ended up at the Continental, save for the fact that Winston apparently had a new bottle of some fancy hard liquor he wanted to open and had “important things to discuss” with Marcus.

Clearly, it was a slow news day all around. 

“Oh, all right then.” Winston nodded, and proceeded to pour himself more brandy. “Then, you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that someone’s made proper overtures towards Jonathan.” 

As far as Marcus was concerned, overtures belonged in opera and nowhere else. And that was saying a lot, since he’d never attended a performance in his life, except for work and even then, he didn’t really have opera on the brain. 

“They’ve made what?” 

“Overtures, Marcus,” Winston said. “It hurts that I’ve tried to give you a proper education, and that it didn’t take. Declared his feelings. His emotions. And not murderous ones. Well, kind of, it’s a bit open to interpretation if you ask me.” 

Now it was Marcus’s turn to say, “Oh.” He suddenly felt thirsty, and downed his brandy. Poured himself more, and the beauty of it was that Marcus didn’t even really like brandy. “Who?” 

Winston regarded him narrowly. “Are you going to do him bodily harm?” 

“I might.” And that was the answer closest to the truth that Marcus could bear to give. Although he would have liked to stick to the idea that declaring not-murderous intentions towards anyone in their line of work was possibly on a list of “stupid shit you should never do,” but of course, Marcus couldn’t trust anybody but himself to have good sense. 

“That’s possibly unwise. The individual in question is protected by the High Table. More so than usual, if you catch my drift.” 

“Right.” That was something else; Marcus was forever after John to interact with a better class of people. More specifically, a better class of people who didn’t hide behind the Table’s good name. Marcus sighed, “...Never mind, I know who it is.” 

“Did Zero make overtures at you?” 

John said, “What?” 

Well, it made Marcus feel a little better that he wasn’t the only one whose education didn’t sink in as God (Winston) intended. Surely John probably learned about different aspects of the opera house from both Marcus and Winston and hey, guess what took. Marcus tried again, this time in English, “Did he ask you out?” 

John had to think about it. “I think so? I don’t know. He stuck a knife in my face first. It happened very fast.” 

Marcus remembered that Winston thought that the whole affair was up for interpretation. Winston was somebody who didn’t think much of ambiguity because ambiguity was impossible to manipulate. He’d take the man’s word for it. “Well.” 

“I haven’t told Zero anything,” John said, “his number is dead anyway. Maybe the High Table sent him somewhere with no reception.” 

“Why didn’t you tell him no? The guy stuck a knife in your fucking face.” It seemed like a worthwhile question. Besides, Marcus felt protective about John’s face, no reason. 

“You stick guns in my face all the time.” John pointed out gamely, “And then I sleep with you anyway.” 

Marcus chewed the inside of his cheek. “That’s not fair.” It was patently true, but unfair. 

There was a long pause at the other end. Marcus listened, and couldn’t even hear John breathing. “...John?” 

“Still here.” 

“Do you want to go out? Like, actually go out. Let’s go get pizza or Chinese or something and not bring a gun.” Marcus couldn’t remember the last time he’d went anywhere without packing, but this could just be filed under the very long list of inadvisable things Marcus would do for John Wick. Asking him out for pizza wouldn’t even bill in their top ten. 

John said, “I’d like that. I’ll call you when I get back? It’s like 3 am over here.” 

“So you guys are like, dating?” Perkins peered at him over the top of her frothy pink drink. “Not just fucking around after a big score.” She accurately read the _fuck you_ scrawled all over Marcus’s face. 

Must be another slow news day. 

“Yes,” Marcus said, although he hadn’t exactly seen John for the last two months. He was sure that this was not so unusual in itself, but ever since they’d added “dating” to the list of things they were, John’s absence was somehow more profound in Marcus’s life than it was before. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that exactly. 

Marcus did, however, know exactly how he felt about everyone else reacting to the fact that they were dating. It was becoming a chore to keep his hands off the trigger (one of three) and not to shoot her straight in the face. 

“Good for you,” said Perkins. “Are you going to declare it to the High Table?” 

“Are we going to fucking what?” 

“John’s contracted to the Italians and you’re contracted to Viggo.” Perkins said, “Some might view this as a conflict of interest considering they kind of want to kill each other all the time.” 

Marcus stared at her blearily and stared down at the double neat brandy he was currently nursing. He recalled that he’d bought the round, and he’d watched the bartender pour their drinks, because it never hurt to be sure about stuff like this. Between then and now, Marcus was fairly sure Perkins wouldn’t have had the chance to slip him anything. If she did though, he’d probably deserve it. 

Finally, Marcus said, “What the fuck did you do, swallow a dictionary while I wasn’t looking?” 

Perkins said, shrugging, “Hey, a girl’s gonna notice when something might make her rich. Maybe I get all your jobs. You know, the ones that the Adjudicator is going to say that you can’t take.” 

Marcus rolled his eyes and went back to his drink. “Why am I not surprised?” 

“I miss you,” John said, still over the phone and not in Marcus’s bed. Marcus suddenly missed him too. 

“Yeah, all right. How’s the job?” 

“Slow.” John made an unhappy sound. “Sorry.” 

Despite himself, a small smile came to Marcus’s lips. That was one part of John’s teaching that seemed to have sunk in and stayed that way; John knew that the only way a job was going to get done was to do it well. “It’s a job. It takes as long as it takes.” 

“Yeah, I guess it does.” There was a mild series of clicks that sounded like John was possibly putting together a gun. “I still want pizza. I prefer pizza, that okay?” 

“Yeah,” Marcus exhaled. “That’s fine. You sound busy, and I gotta sleep. Okay?” 

Part of Marcus knew that he ought to bring up the whole debacle of declaring their relationship (such as it was) with the High Table because, well. No two ways about it, the Table was in charge, and they got pissy about it when things happened without their knowledge. But he liked this, it reminded Marcus of the way things used to be, before several people were trying to crawl up his ass and there really wasn’t that much room. 

“Marcus.” John’s voice sounded, and got Marcus’s attention. But who was he kidding, John always had his attention. 

Marcus held his breath. “Yeah.” 

“Good night.” 

“And for you? Good hunting,” Marcus said to that, and John laughed. That sound helped Marcus drift off to sleep not long afterwards. 

Marcus went to see Winston for advice. The booze was but incidental; Marcus was there mostly for advice. As soon as Marcus made himself comfortable in the penthouse suite, Winston informed him that the poison of choice for the evening was absinthe. He was trying out a new supplier. The bottle, crystal and holding something very green, looked positively lethal. Even Marcus, who had a reasonably strong stomach, could foresee himself being sick on the stuff. Still, good advice was hard to come by in these parts, and sometimes, a man had to pay the price in other ways other than handing over coin. 

“And, it’s illegal,” said Winston cheerfully. In fact, he looked so damn cheerful that Marcus had to wonder if he had reason to fear for his life. Of course, certain protections were afforded to him on Continental grounds, but Marcus was not under any false impressions. Sure, the Continental was consecrated ground, under the sanction of the High Table. But more than that, it was that this particular Continental was in Manhattan. Winston wouldn’t die to defend his hard-earned turf, but maybe he’d make sure other people did, whether they wanted to or not. 

“Um,” said Marcus. Everything they did was pretty high on the scale of illegal, yet it was possibly no accident that Winston had chosen to bring it up. Winston never did anything by accident. 

“But it won’t kill you. I’m surprised you haven’t had the pleasure, Marcus.” Winston raised his glass. “Chin chin.” 

Somehow, Marcus got the feeling that they were having two, possibly three different conversations at once. It made his head spin, even if he was pretty good at keeping all of his plates in the air. 

Finally, Marcus asked, “Would you do it?” 

“Put forward a declaration with the Table?” Of course Winston cut straight to the point. It wasn’t to help Marcus, no, but it was to show Marcus in no uncertain terms that Winston was still very much on top of things even as he languished in his hotel. “No. Where I put my dick is my business. But then again, I wouldn’t need to. I’ve said so before, you should have gotten into Management when you had the chance.” 

“Too bad I ain’t the Management type.” 

Winston smiled around his glass, jagged, beastly. “So you keep telling me.” 

“And where are you putting your dick these days?” said Marcus, mostly for a change of subject. He put the question out there, knowing full well that Winston wouldn’t answer, but maybe it was another way of saying thank you. 

Marcus was a good hitman and an even better criminal. He liked to think that he instilled in John the same work ethic. And he knew he did, since John was still several timezones away and God knew where, even though he seemed to have reception. 

He supposed he could have asked, but John had once accused him of being a mother hen and maybe that stung more than Marcus would ever care to admit, even in the privacy of his own head. So it was simpler not to ask. 

Although putting a declaration seemed like a lot of skin off Marcus’s back, he was keeping positive about it. As far as he was concerned, all he had to do, was walk in to the designated place for his appointment, say in as few words as humanly possible that: _Yeah, okay, I’m banging John Wick. We understand that this might cause the Table and our respective employers some grief, but respectfully, we don’t give a fuck._

Come to think of it, that was still too many words. 

“Hello, Marcus.” 

Definitely too many words. 

As usual, it was hell and a half to reach the High Table and this particular ritual had involved a handful of coins, several trips to South Bronx to seek out payphones that were mostly defunct, except for a certain twilight hour on Thursday evenings. Good thing Marcus was at that age where he was thinking of slowing down; finding an hour or two on a weeknight wasn’t as hard as it once was. 

Where it landed Marcus was a sushi restaurant and he was suddenly very conscious of a.) how the whole place stunk of fish, and b.) Zero standing behind a counter holding a very big cleaver. 

“Jesus Christ.” 

Zero didn’t exactly look too pleased to see him either. “This is for fish. Not people. But I do need you to leave your guns.” 

Marcus disarmed himself. He didn’t want to; whereas John might have been confused about Zero’s overtures, Marcus wasn’t under any sort of delusions about Zero’s murderous intentions, simmering through the air like a pot of water sat on a lit gas hob. It was good to know they all had something in common. 

“And the one near your shoe, please.” 

Marcus removed that too. “Happy?” 

Zero shrugged. “Want some _beer_?” 

“Not really,” said Marcus, “are you having a stroke?” 

Eventually, Marcus was able to convince Zero that he really didn’t want any beer. And although he wasn’t quite about to convince himself that the other man wasn’t having a stroke, it wasn’t any of his business, in the end; Marcus was happy enough to let that go and be directed to the Adjudicator, who was apparently having lunch in a private room out back through the kitchen.

There were a lot of knives in that kitchen. 

“You’re late,” the Adjudicator said, but their voice managed to be flat, only slightly obscured by the fact that they were chewing. But Marcus was not so great at subtext. If he were, he’d probably be in goddamn management. 

“Yeah, I was harassed by Zero asking me if I wanted beer out front.” 

The Adjudicator considered this. “You’re welcome to have a drink, if it will make you more comfortable, at ease.” 

“Don’t think so.” 

“It’s a bit of an arduous process. But mostly painless. Thank you for coming to the High Table, for taking the initiative.” 

At this point, maybe John owed Marcus a little bit more than pizza. There was a vacant chair across from where the Adjudicator was sitting, but Marcus had the worst feeling, that if he took it, maybe bad things would happen to him and he wouldn’t be able to control them. 

“Anytime,” Marcus said hurriedly. He ran a hand through his hair, because his hands had no gun to reach for to feel safe. “For the record, I’m dating John Wick. Also for the record, it’s not going to affect our respective employers. Can I go?” 

“No.” 

Fuck. “Okay, what else do you need? I’m not going to give you dirty pictures for blackmail purposes.” 

The Adjudicator arched a neat brow. “Are there pictures?” 

“Of course not.” 

The Adjudicator did not look convinced, but to Marcus’s relief, moved on anyway. “The Table needs from any declarant a sense of history. If we deem that there are any contracts carried out improperly on the part of either declarant within the submitted timeline, then there will be consequences. We’ll discuss your history today, and then Mr. Wick will be deposed separately, as soon as he becomes available again.” 

“I’m leaving,” Marcus said. “What the fuck.” 

“You can, and I will declare you In Breach. It’s not quite _excommunicado_ , but it could be quite inconvenient to you anyway. It is your best interests to stay and complete your Declaration.” 

Marcus wondered if Winston forgot to tell him about In Breaches on purpose. It’d be just like him. Finally, he slumped down in the chair, glanced at his watch. “Fine.” 

“When was your most recent encounter with John Wick?” 

“In person?” Marcus had to think. “I don’t know. Maybe two months ago. He’s been...unavailable.” It was good to use the Table’s vernacular, even if it made Marcus want to die inside. 

“And have you taken any contracts in the time he’s been unavailable.” 

“Just a couple,” said Marcus. He was beginning to wish he had some beer, or maybe something even stronger. But he didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction. He gave his contacts for the jobs, and the Adjudicator noted something down on a phone. 

“And your first encounter with John Wick?” 

Marcus blanched, “What, you mean the first time we.” 

“Yes.” 

“I don’t remember.” Marcus really didn’t; it was a long time ago. “I can give you a ballpark. It’s really the best I can do.” 

“I’m afraid I’ll need a precise date. The High Table is unable to conduct investigations on a _ballpark_.” 

Maybe this was the Adjudicator trying to level with him, or maybe it wasn’t. Marcus sighed, “Hang on one second.” 

While he waited for the call to connect, Marcus watched the Adjudicator spear a fat oyster with a two-pronged fork. It bled wine red. 

“Marcus?” John. Slightly short of breath, and the line crackled dangerously. 

“Hi John.” Marcus sucked in a deep breath. “I’ve got the Adjudicator crawling up my ass. Do you remember the first time we fucked?” 

Marcus had to hold the phone a little ways from him as an explosion went off soundly at the other end. 

“...Maybe I’ll call you back.” 

John said, “Thanksgiving, ‘98. We were in an elevator. If you need to know which one, I'll have to get back to you.” 

Marcus’s system suddenly did something very strange. It grew about three degrees too warm and when it sounded like somebody was getting their throat opened up with something sharp, he got nervous. 

“John? Hey, you sure?” 

John responded, with no trace of gurgling blood in his voice, “Pretty sure. I have to go now. Tell the Adjudicator I’ll do my bit when I get back. And then we can go for pizza.” 

Marcus said, “I love you.” The words slipped out before he could keep his grip on them and shove them back where they belonged. That was fine. In the end; he meant it as a figure of speech, a gesture of gratitude.

But John just said, “I love you too.” And hung up the phone.

“When you said fishing I thought you meant…” John trailed off. “I don’t know. Cracking open a cold one someplace. Don’t think they deliver pizza here either.” 

“We can always get pizza on a job,” said Marcus. It was a little difficult to maneuver himself around so he could look John in the face. There wasn’t that much room in the one sleeping bag, but at least it was warm. “I said ice fishing.” 

“Yeah,” John stared back, unrelenting. He put a hand against Marcus’s mouth and Marcus kissed his thumb. “Fishing, with an ice cold beer.” 

“That’s wishful thinking,” Marcus chided, but not too seriously. “I’ve taught you better than that, John. I know I have.” 

“You have,” John affirmed and kissed him. Warm and slow, like nobody else was watching. This was hardly the first date that Marcus envisioned in his head, but still it was something. At any rate, it’d be nice not to pick up his phone for a day or two.

**Author's Note:**

> This brought you by Willem Dafoe going [ice fishing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LMRQb-RRt5g&t=327s) with somebody named John, and Zero being [really enthusiastic about beer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nPtMHSYtPc4).


End file.
